Legends Never Die
by Closet Scrawler
Summary: How can Spock allow this broken timeline to continue? -Not Slash-


**Author's Note: **I am not going to say how many times I just watched my shiny new DVD. That would be embarrassing. Nor will I say how often I paused, rewound, squinted at things in the background, and analyzed the movie almost frame by frame in an effort to squeeze every nuance out of the new universe. That, too, would be embarrassing. In light of this completely non-obsessive behavior, however, I was obliged to edit this story. I have written this because, quite frankly, the universe that is Star Trek has been pushing the limits of credulity since 1966, and I see no reason to deny myself an all too human desire for my heroes to live forever. I realize this has probably been done repeatedly, but here is my offering any way.

* * *

**=(^)= Legends Never Die =(^)=**

The remains of mountains crunched under his boots, and he felt every one of his years pressing upon his shoulders. The ship was small, cobbled together from what was now the remains of Kirk's ejected life pod and the dilapidated transport shuttle at the Delta Vega outpost. Its engines were noisy and turbulent, and had thrown up clouds of dust that had not been disturbed for millennia. The powder fine earth began to settle behind him, coating the shuttle and obscuring his footprints as though they had never been.

He was tired.

He kept walking, checking his purloined tricorder once. The machine was little better than a toy when compared to what he was accustomed to, but it would serve its purpose here. His steady, measured pace took him past the rounded, wind worn rubble of some ancient, long dead civilization. There was no scent of life on this world. He did not know what provided the air he breathed. By all logic, the atmosphere should have long ago dissipated into space. He glanced up at the sky, the sun of this world so dim that even at the height of day the stars shone clearly down at him. It did not produce enough heat to warm the surface of this barren world. Paradox upon paradox.

He did not know if the Enterprise had succeeded. In the end, it did not matter. He had known, the moment he'd seen Vulcan crumbling in the skies of her sister planet, that this timeline could not be allowed to continue. It was his own doing that had caused this nightmare, and it would be his doing that would correct it.

Logic, however, had dictated that he not rule out the possibility of his failure. After all, he had failed to save Romulus. He had failed to stop Nero. He had failed to save Vulcan. Failure upon failure, the crushing weight of it threatening to overwhelm him with every breath he took. If he failed once more, then this timeline would go on as it was.

Seeing James T. Kirk had been like seeing dawn break over an endless night. He would call that young man Kirk, for he was not his Jim. Even so, it had been so temping to go with him. One last adventure before returning to reality. But there was the possibility, however slim, that the Enterprise would fail. And if it should fail, then it would be extremely unlikely that the ship or any aboard her would survive. There would be no opportunity to restore the timeline. He could not take the chance.

It was his duty.

He reminded himself that this was an alternate timeline that had to be corrected. The real timeline had to be re-established. Using time travel as a tool was shadowy territory as far as morality was concerned, but it would not be the first time that it had been done. Such a task was never to be undertaken lightly, but history was already severely compromised. He was morally bound to restore it.

But in case he failed, he had done his best to ensure Kirk could salvage as much as possible from the existing timeline. It was the least he could do, considering it was his fault that time was unraveling before his very eyes. It was cheating, but as he had pointed out to Kirk, cheating was a skill. He was not as adept at it as Jim was, though. Jim would have found a way to prevent all of this.

Jim…

It had been good to see him again, even if it wasn't him. He did not look the same, move or talk the same, but that manic energy, that enthusiasm for life, that unwavering conviction that nothing was impossible if you could just find the way to do it… that had been good to see again. That had been good to_ feel_ again. He had not been able to resist the temptation. He had lived an entire human lifespan since he had last seen his old friend, and in all that time he had never come to know anyone who could even begin to rival the strength of those qualities. The touch of that vibrant mind had given him the strength to drag himself out of his misery and do what needed to be done.

It had been difficult to let Kirk go without him, to press the keys that activated the transporter and send Kirk away to an unknown fate without him at his side. He had drunk in the sight of him until the very last molecule had been whisked away in the shimmering energies, knowing that, one way or another, it would be the last time he would see him. But it was not _his_ Jim. _His_ Jim would never exist if he failed. It was this knowledge that kept his feet moving despite the unbearable weariness dragging at him.

He had not landed the unwieldy craft far from his goal, but it still took him many long minutes before he was close enough to sight the misshapen ring of rock. It looked exactly as he remembered it. He stood before it, wondering what he should say. He had thought of little else in his journey here. The dim star and its single satellite had not been discovered yet, and was unguarded. The limited sensors of his make-shift vessel had detected none of the eddies in time that had first captured the Federation's attention. The tricorder did not detect any of the awesome energy that had first guided them to this stone monolith.

"Greetings," the deep voice boomed and he was so exhausted that he nearly dropped the tricorder in surprise. The voice was the same and different than he remembered it. Then, it had sounded alive, but also mechanical, almost patronizing. Now, it was filled with inflection and tone. It sounded pleased. It sounded… fond.

He stared at it. "You know why I am here," he concluded.

"You seek that which has been."

He blinked. It could not be this easy. It was never this easy. "Then you will assist me in correcting the time line?"

"All is as it should be," the Guardian stated with immense satisfaction.

Grey brows drew together in confusion as the implications sent his mind reeling. Could his entire timeline, all his memories, in fact be an aberration?

No. This timeline had nothing to its advantage. Kirk's father somehow killed long before his time, Vulcan destroyed by the hand of a self-confessed Romulan renegade, and half of Starfleet's ships obliterated while defending the planet. Forty seven Klingon ships destroyed. He was certain war with one, if not both, of those empires was imminent. And that was only the destruction that he was aware of.

All because of his failure to keep a promise he should never have made.

He would not fail again. "All is most certainly _not_ as it should be."

"Join with me," the Guardian said, its deep voice softened with understanding.

He slowly stepped closer to the uneven circle of stone and laid an aged, shaking hand against the smooth surface. It was warm and felt alive under his palm as he closed his eyes. Instantly, he was drawn into a mind so vast that he could not comprehend it as a machine; a mind so calculating, logical, and cold that he could not envision it as a living thing. He was pulled along in a maelstrom of sights and thoughts and he knew, beyond any fraction of a doubt, that if he had attempted this when he had first encountered the Guardian, so, so many years ago, so impossibly young, he would not have survived. Years of experience and practice held him together, allowed him to relax, casually observing snippets of information as he passed quickly by rather than making any attempt to reach for anything.

They stopped, hovering in a black void. He had the impression that this emptiness had been prepared just for him, as a consolation to his mortality. He was granted a moment to gather his thoughts, and then the Guardian showed him the birth of the Universe. The memory was old, but fairly recent in the grand scheme of things.

"I am the Guardian of Forever," it intoned gravely. "I exist, not only in this dimension, in this universe, but in all the fragments that make up every reality. From one universe to the next, I am the Guardian of _all_ Forevers. There are not an infinite number. Your science," it added before he could object, "sees but does not understand. You see a multitude of timelines layered upon each other and think they are all separate realities." He felt a sense of frustration from the Guardian, for it could not explain what it knew in terms that the Vulcan could understand. It stopped trying. "It is enough that you should know there are only a relatively few realities. Some were created at the same moment the Universe was born, and the laws that govern them are drastically different. Opposing, to create a balance. The one from which you come is the first reality, the main thread of the tapestry. From it branch all others. It is the center. All others touch it, and as a result the primary thread experiences the most incursions. It is both the strongest, and the weakest."

He felt a vague stirring of something similar to hope. Did this mean that he had been pulled not only back in time, but into a divergent reality as well?

"Yes," the Guardian answered.

What logically followed was that his own timeline did still exist, whole and intact.

"Of course," the Guardian said patiently. "As does the timeline created by Leonard McCoy when he passed through this portal." There was a mental impression of a sigh. "I cannot directly affect the events within any reality. I was not created for that purpose. But I can prevent them from being lost, as I prevented your reality from being lost. Then as now."

He briefly wondered how that could be possible.

"It requires a great deal of energy," the Guardian said with another mental sigh. "Each Universe is born with a limited supply, and each dimension uses up a portion. Each reality requires a catalyst – in this case, the energy siphoned from the nova. Your Universe will die younger because of the unusually high number of realities it possesses. Regrettable, but necessary."

Before he could ask why, his mind was filled with an expanding darkness. Just as stars are born from nebula and fail to produce worlds that can support life, so too the universe was born, expanded, cooled, contracted and died without producing the conditions that could spawn life with sentience. One after another, universes rose and fell without managing to give rise to a single intelligence that could truly think. Those who made the Guardian had moved on to the next plane long ago, leaving it to continue alone. It had been a machine once, but over time had acquired sentience. He was filled with the Guardian's aching loneliness, tasted the bitterness of utter solitude. Each birth tempted the Guardian to end its own existence. And then this universe was born, and finally there was _life_ again.

The Guardian had waited patiently for that life to grow, mature, and discover this tiny planet. A joy beyond description flitted through his mind as the Guardian showed him the memory of the first beings it had spoken to since becoming self aware. Seeing how rare and precious life truly is caused them to scatter their seed across this galaxy before moving on to the next. The Universe was bursting with life, teeming with a staggering diversity. But it was not enough. The guardian took him to the end of Time, and although there were beings who had the capacity to survive the heat death, none will retain the desire or will to do so. Stagnant beings of pure thought and energy. The Guardian could not see beyond the end of any given universe, for time did not _exist_ before the birth of the next, but it feared there would be nothing but another empty void. Desperate sadness touched his mind before drawing away.

"I will not allow it," The Guardian said into the silence.

He could think of no way to prevent it.

"There is little I can do within an existing reality, but I can choose to whom I speak."

"You called the Enterprise here," he said with growing realization. The Guardian had sent off waves of energy that had been all but impossible to ignore.

"Curiosity is your species greatest weakness – and its greatest strength," the Guardian commented. "Those who I allow to pass through me as a gateway become, in a sense, a part of me. This is how I can retrieve them when their task is completed, and why they do not need to pass through the portal to return."

"Then… you could have retrieved McCoy at any time," he said with increasing distress. "You deliberately allowed McCoy to alter the past, and you deliberately allowed us to believe we had to change it back. You knew what would happen to all of us… to Jim." The memory of that experience had faded into the past, but it sprung back now to haunt him.

"Yes," the Guardian said.

"Why?" The single word asked a multitude of questions.

"I can see all that was, all that is, all that can be," the Guardian answered with an infinitely weary sigh. "The vast majority of events within the flow of time are set and cannot be altered. Even now, what you called the Doomsday machine is heading toward this part of this reality. The parasitical creatures are laying their plans to acquire passage to Deneva. The invaders from the Kelvan Empire have yet to reach the galactic barrier. Much, much more. These things I cannot alter, then or now. It was necessary for your captain, and those around him, to have certain experiences, to be shaped by those experiences, in order to stop the larger events from consuming your reality. And it was necessary for you to be shaped by _him_."

He did not deny that he had been shaped by his friendship to Jim. He had long ago come to terms with his emotions. He cherished them, despite the pain they often brought. He struggled with a sense of sheer aloneness that he had not allowed himself to acknowledge for nearly a century. On the heels of that thought was a desire to step through the portal, return to his own reality, and simply go to sleep.

"I can return you," the Guardian said. "But I ask a favor first."

The notion that he was about to sell his soul to the devil seized upon him, and it spoke with McCoy's voice. What could such an entity possibly want from him?

"The reality in which you now reside was created the moment Nero crossed the threshold from your reality," the Guardian stated as though he had spoken aloud. Perhaps he had. It was difficult to tell, here. "Travel through time and dimension is within my purview. The black hole, as you call it, could have exited anywhere. I chose to divert its energies to here."

The Guardian stopped speaking, and instead knowledge filled his mind to the point of pain. An entire timeline, winking into existence in the span of an instant. The Guardian's existence in the newborn reality, from the beginning, simply another facet to its being. Different requests, different encounters, from the dawn of the universe. The history of this timeline was altered before it was even created, in a sense. Vulcan was doomed in this reality before Nero was born in the other. It was extremely confusing.

"What would you ask of me?" he asked when the flow of thought finally ceased and he could think again.

"I ask that you stay, at least for a time." The guardian paused, and sighed in the face of his confusion. "I diverted the energies of the nova to the most malleable point in this reality's history. I have done all I could, asked all the favors possible. Events have been set into motion that are now beyond my influence. This reality is threatened by a coming danger that can only be defeated if Spock of Vulcan, the one native to this line, remains in Starfleet."

"He will not do so." He knew this for a certainty.

"I ask that you convince him."

His primary duty was to the reality to which he was born. It was safe. Vulcan was safe. He would be logged as dead, destroyed along with the Narada by the vortex. He knew of other methods of time travel. Utilizing the Guardian had been his first thought, for it presented the easiest option. Otherwise, he would need to acquire a vessel strong enough to withstand the stress of a sling shot. But he knew of no way to travel between dimensions; not with any guarantee of getting where he desired to be. He could not save Romulus in his reality… but there was time to save it here. A planet for a planet. He could keep the promise he had made. And then he could go home.

Spock would be duty bound to resign from Starfleet and assist in the rebuilding of the Vulcan culture. He knew himself well enough to know that, in his youth, _nothing_ could divert him from duty. Even now, very little could. Additionally, if the Enterprise was successful in its mission, then it would have been because Kirk succeeded in proving him emotionally compromised. Such a thing would be an overwhelming disgrace to one so torn between Vulcan logic and Human emotion.

He would have to offer himself in Spock's stead. He knew a suitable planet… a world not yet discovered by the Federation, a world that had been colonized in his own reality. It would simply occur sooner here. It would take years to fulfill that obligation if he made it to his younger counterpart. He was beyond tired. Exhaustion threatened to claim him where he stood. There were not years remaining to him.

"I do not have the strength to do what you ask," he answered finally, and it felt as though the weight of his own grief would crush him.

Compassion pressed against him, and the Guardian's smile lit his soul. "Here is your strength."

The blackness of the void parted, and revealed a glowing ball of energy. He recognized it even from here, and as the Guardian brought him near his mind balked at the impossibility. They came to a hover, and he simply stared. He had touched many minds in his lifetime, and each had its own flavor and texture. The globe hovering before him was a kaleidoscope of colors, a rainbow pattern of thought turning slowly. Bright sparks arched across the surface randomly.

There was no mistaking it for any other.

How many times had he touched this mind? How much suffering and damage had this mind taken that needed him to mend it as the other mended the broken body? How many times had he painstakingly sifted through the shattered fragments of this mind, piecing the shards back together one by one?

He would know it anywhere, in any state of being.

Jim.

His mind locked up for a moment, and he could do nothing but stare at the slowly shifting patterns. Jim was sleeping. He watched, mesmerized, as a flicker of thought flashed across the surface and faded away. Touching Kirk's mind had caused the old wound to burn with the need to be mended, but it had been different enough for him to resist. That ache was nothing compared to the agony of seeing Jim's mind floating there, just beyond his reach. It had not called to him as this image did.

The last time he had seen Jim was before he left on that fateful media event. Such things were invariably distasteful to Jim, and he had not wanted to go. He had convinced him to indulge Starfleet, and he had lived with the guilt of that ever since.

When the Nexus had claimed Jim, he had adamantly declared that he was not dead. He, McCoy, Scott, and Chekov had called in every favor owed them and searched the surrounding space for weeks, and came up empty. They studied the nexus with every tool available. Probe after probe was sent into the vivid ribbon of energy, only to be destroyed. But the connection had not broken, and he knew that Jim was alive. It had dimmed to almost nothing, fading into an inky blackness as it was wont to do when they were separated by time travel, alternate dimensions, and several other incredible circumstances. But it had not broken. He had tried to breach the void, but found only a wall of… nothingness blocking him.

He could not get to Jim. It had nearly driven him mad with frustration, for he knew that Jim would have found a way if it were _he_ that were trapped. It had taken the combined efforts of the others to keep him from exposing himself to the vacuum of space in the path of the Nexus, and attempt to physically enter the energy field.

It was not an auspicious christening for the U.S.S Enterprise-B, but eventually Starfleet had declared James T. Kirk killed in the line of duty. The others believed him. They fought to at least have him declared as 'missing'. When it did not happen, he had resigned from Starfleet. He did not withdraw his claims that Jim was alive, but he ceased to advertise his belief. There was nothing that could be done, and in time there was no choice but to accept that and move on.

When the Nexus returned Jim, so many years later, on that primeval planet, he had felt the bond flare back into life. He had tried, so very hard, to send a message. But of all the incredible things that Jim was, he was _not_ a telepath. He was a dismal receiver at the best of times, and in the heat of battle it was simply impossible. Such was the result of forging a telepathic bond with a psi-null individual. For the most part, Jim was unable to even detect the link without being in physical contact. To Jim, it existed mostly in his subconscious. Jim had lamented his own lack of ability on more than one occasion, despite reassurance that it was not a failing on his part.

Jim was a poor sender as well, but he knew one thing for certain. Jim had thought all of them dead and gone. Jim had thought himself alone.

And he had died.

He died saving a planet thriving with life just on the cusp of civilization in addition to the crew of a ship named Enterprise. Jim had never wanted to grow old and forgetful, and he had always valued the sacrifice of life for the sake of the greater good as 'the best way to go'. As a Vulcan, he had long since come to terms with the simple fact that, barring untimely demise, he would outlive his human friends. But there should have been so much more time, and it grieved him to think that Jim had died because he had felt his old self-proclaimed prophesy had come to pass.

The bond had broken. He had _felt_ Jim's death. He knew it to be true. He tried to turn away, tried to ignore the almost gravitational pull that was being exerting upon him.

"No," the Guardian assured him. "It is as you see. Come."

He was conflicted as the Guardian pulled him closer, for he both wanted to touch and deny the possibility. As they drew near, however, he could feel Jim's mind without even touching it. Even sleeping, it radiated outward. He had always needed greater shielding to block this mind, first out of distaste for the intrusion of another's emotions on the security of his hard won logic, and then out of respect for Jim's privacy. Did he dare reach for this?

"Do not wake him," the Guardian cautioned, and he felt himself released from the machine's hold.

He floundered for only a moment, reaching for the glowing orb as an anchor. If he had lungs, he would have gasped. There was only the briefest of resistance, a moment to identify, and he was granted access without even so much as a ripple of the shimmering colors. He was pulled into the warm embrace of Jim's mind with an ease born of familiarity and for a time he simply reveled in the sensation of the unquestioning trust and acceptance that enveloped him. A part of Jim's mind that could only belong to this version instinctively reached for him. He could not stop himself from responding. A gaping wound that had long since scarred over with time burst open and began to fill.

It was an ecstasy greater than anything flesh could achieve.

_Jim!_

The initial flare faded and the bond settled in its place within his mind as though it had never been gone. He had forgotten how it had felt, to have that presence in the back of his mind. To never be alone. He was _whole_ again. The bond had been formed on accident, over time, a result of the undeniable compatibility of their minds and the sheer intimacy of the melds needed to heal Jim's mind. It was a connection usually reserved for mates, and because of this he had at first refused to accept it. He had fled all the way to Vulcan, to Gol, to purge himself of this glorious, wonderful thing, and it terrified him anew that he had almost succeeded.

Jim's drowsy mind began to stir, despite his best efforts to shield him from the experience. He was certain that the Guardian's warning had been meant seriously. Jim hummed with mild confusion but drifted back into slumber, content with the assumption of a dream. He felt a sudden urge to shake him awake. Instead, he gently began to disentangle his mind from Jim's. His old friend reached out a sleepy tendril of thought and tried to pull him back with a flash of regret and loss. The emotions curled around him and he almost reconsidered. He could stay here… his body would eventually perish, and with it his mind. Or perhaps he would be stored here as Jim was. Either way, the temptation was nearly overwhelming.

But although he was loath to leave, it was the thought that Jim was trapped here against his will – which seemed likely – that finally made him withdraw. Jim stirred fretfully, not liking the absence, and he sent a small thread of reassurance and a whisper to go back to sleep. This was accepted without question, and Jim slept on.

The moment he left Jim's mind, the Guardian plucked him from the black void and pulled him to a respectable distance.

"I regret that it had not been possible to maintain that link once I held his mind within mine," the Guardian's voice said softly. "Your meld with me has changed that. He is not here against his will," the Guardian added before he could ask. "Although he had little choice at the time."

He did not answer, but continued to stare at the serenely floating ball that was Jim. He demanded with his silence that the Guardian explain itself.

"I chose to retain the temporal connection when you and your companions left this planet. I brought his mind back to me when his body could no longer support it."

"Why have you trapped him here?"

"I will not allow the next universe to be empty," the Guardian said. "I will not be alone. I shall bring with me a new generation of Creators."

"And Jim agreed to this?"

"He was very surprised. He was reluctant to sleep, but he cannot waken until the heat death of the Universe, and the birth of the next. Only in those first few moments, when the universe is in the throws of creation and time does not yet exist, will I be able to release him."

"That… is a very long time," he said softly.

"As you reckon time, yes."

He could not stop watching the shimmering orb. He wished with every fiber of his being that Jim could be freed _now_.

"No," the Guardian said gently. "He cannot exist here as he is now. His will be the most difficult task. When the time comes, he will need to shape the very energies of the newborn universe to allow not only his own existence but the others as well. He, along with the other minds I hold now and will hold."

And the blackness wavered, the invisible curtain drawn further back to reveal more orbs. He recognized all of them. McCoy, Scott, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov… ranged around Jim as though they were merely gathered at a conference table. All sleeping. The curtain pulled further away, and he saw many more orbs gathered in circles. He recognized Picard, having touched that mind, and assumed the ones gathered about him were his crew. He did not recognize the others. "I do not know what the next universe holds," the Guardian continued. "There is danger in this, for I may not succeede. It is not immortality or invincibility that I have offered them. Simply… a new beginning."

He was pleased for Jim, but he could not stop a pang of loss from welling up from within him.

"Do you wish to join them?" the Guardian asked. Its voice was calm, almost coy with amused fondness.

He did not dignify the question with an answer.

"Use his strength," the Guardian said with urgent entreaty. "Convince Spock to remain in Starfleet. That which is coming requires it. They need each other if they are to defeat it, and defeat all that you know is coming. And if they are to obtain the same reward you are being offered."

And he realized, suddenly, that the Guardian wanted another Kirk for its collection. Another Spock. Another group of seven. That was certainly cheating!

The Guardian laughed at the notion. "The Universe is large, youngling. You need never meet the others, although their lives will be very different than what you knew. They will not have the same challenges, the same experiences. They will not be the same people."

He was being offered the impossible, and the temptation was beyond resisting. He could think of no reason _to_ resist it.

"I will do as you ask," he answered.

A surge of gratitude and pride welled up from the Guardian, and he was shown a glimpse of the immediate future before being escorted back to his body.

He had fallen to his knees and collapsed against the warm stone. Tears tracked down his face, mixed with the dust that had been stirred up. He shuddered against the Guardian as the emotions roiling in his mind took a physical toll. He automatically checked the bond, protective of what had become precious. There was almost no information being sent through it, for Jim still slept. Its presence alone, however, was… indescribable. He climbed to his feet slowly, painfully, leaning against the supportive monolith.

When he managed to regain his composure, he opened his eyes to see that the portal was misted over. He was looking at what appeared to be a shuttle bay, or some sort of transport area. The image was frozen, and some corner of his mind noted absently that the Guardian had misled them when it stated it could not display time differently.

"He will be there soon," the Guardian informed him.

He nodded slowly. He would need to choose his words very, very carefully. Every nuance must be perfect. Truths, half-truths, misdirection, outright lies. The Guardian had shown him Kirk in command of the Enterprise, years earlier than in the primary reality. He had seen the legendary crew, all of them, gathered together on the bridge years ahead of their time. What could be coming in this timeline that needed the crew of the Enterprise gathered and forged into a unit so soon? What devastating force could be on its way that justified the Guardian actually contriving to destroy an entire world and considering it a small price to pay?

For it was painfully obvious that this reality hinged on Spock's existence. The entire future of this reality depended on Spock accepting his humanity far quicker than before, for only then could he have the friendship that the Guardian claimed was vital. Spock had been stripped of all that he would have clung to as a youth. The fate of a universe, in essence, depended on a non-existent friendship that was bound to be difficult to forge as a result of his own advice to Kirk.

He sighed, and began brushing the dust off of his clothing. He had done his best to keep his meld with Kirk as superficial as possible, but he was simply too familiar with that mind to completely blot out his random thoughts. Kirk was not so very different from his Jim. He knew that Kirk would regret having to compromise Spock for the greater good. His task, he knew, would not only be to convince Spock to remain in Starfleet, but to accept the hand of friendship that he knew Kirk would offer.

The Guardian seemed confident in his ability to do that however, for the image had shown Spock on the bridge as well.

Then he stepped through the portal and created the future.

~ Fini


End file.
